


The Ties That Bind Us

by Bladespeaker



Series: Guild Wars 2: Traveling Circus Corpus [2]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Guild Wars 2 Living World, Guild Wars 2: Heart of Thorns, I'll add more tags later I'm super tired
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25890589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bladespeaker/pseuds/Bladespeaker
Summary: Zhaitan lies defeated and the Pact and Tyria look eagerly onward to a new future.  But will what it hold make or break the alliances forged, and will the Knights of Gryphon remain the same afterward?
Relationships: Tea Leaves - Relationship, Trahearne/Female Player Character (Guild Wars), Trammander - Relationship
Series: Guild Wars 2: Traveling Circus Corpus [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1878784
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	1. Arc 1, Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A new morning brings new beginnings -- and offers a rare break from all-too-close reality.

Sylvari did not sleep. The closest thing they entered was a trancelike state, during which the Dreamer was semi-aware of the waking world around them yet more deeply connected to the world beyond. It was still restful, but for many it was something that wasn’t fully taken advantage of unless the individual in question had become well and truly exhausted.

Some sylvari were, of course, exceptions to the rule. Trahearne watched Llumin as she slowly breathed in and out like the tide and wondered what she dreamed. A small furrow pronounced itself between her brows, and her lips pursed as if she was thinking of some grand argument. His eyes traced over the delicate whorls in the petals on her high, fine cheekbones, the gentle curve of her jaw, the lashes on her closed lids behind which he could see the wide blue orbs dancing quietly behind their curtains. Her long, pointed ear twitched, and she murmured something, frowned, and scrunched her eyes more tightly-closed before she wriggled closer to him beneath the covers. He smiled and carefully reached towards her hand, slid his fingers around hers. A brief flicker of confusion slipped over her sleeping features before the furrow in her brow smoothed. A faint smile ghosted over her lips, and a soft sigh slipped from them. She finally took a long breath through her nose before her eyes flickered open.

“Good morning, darling,” he murmured.

Her eyes focused on him. She smiled. A faint glow of lavender flowed through her skin. “Good morning.” She lifted her head from the pillow, and he reached beneath to let her rest her head on his arm before she shivered and drew closer to him. 

“Still cold?”

There was a soft, lazy laugh. “What gave it away?”

He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “Shivering’s pretty universal, Commander.”

A spark leapt into the calm blue of her eyes. “No,” she said, and playfully flicked him on the nose. “No, no, no. None of that, Trahearne,” she said, and frowned at him only half-severely. “We are off-duty. On our honeymoon. You shall address me by my name,” she drawled imperiously, and jutted her slender jaw at him. “Otherwise you shall pay the price.”

“And what would that be?” He couldn’t stop his traitorous brow or the smirk that rose at her threat.

She narrowed her eyes with a cunning smile and raised her fingers from beneath the covers and wiggled them.

Mock horror widened his eyes. “You wouldn’t!”

“I _would._ Tickles if you use titles,” she declared. 

He sighed and tilted his head back on his pillow. “You are a cruel mistress.”

“Oh? First you call me all sorts of wonderful things, then darling, now cruel?” Her eyes danced. “If I be cruel, you be finicky.”

“Touché, Commander.” His smile immediately dissolved in terror as her lips twitched. “No, no, I take it back,” he yelped, and wriggled to the far end of the bed. Her arms, slender but strong, wrapped around his stomach.

“No escape,” she snickered, and dug her fingers into his sides. “Quit writhing and accept your punishment, Marshal!” Her fingers froze. 

“Oh dear; the punisher becomes the punished,” he said, and turned again to face her. She gave a playful giggle as he caught her wrists from his sides and pulled her back to him. He released one of her hands to brush a strand of hair from her eyes.

“I admit my wrongdoing, Trahearne,” she said stoically, and raised her chin to him. “What then should be my toll?”

He hummed. “A kiss good-morning shall suffice,” he said, and pressed his brow to hers. “You haven’t given me one yet today.”

She squinted. “I haven’t? I thought I had.”

“No, my darling, that was I who had given one to you on the crown of your head.”

She hummed and shrugged. “I must have merely dreamt I kissed you, then.”

“You should have told me sooner; I would have woken you to make those dreams reality.”

She laughed softly and paid her price. “I will try to remember that next time.”

They lay like that for a while, content and quiet, and listened to the sounds of each other’s breathing and of the birdsong outside. Dawn’s shy blush slowly colored the sides of their tent and the world beyond. Finally, Trahearne spoke.

“What were you dreaming of?”

Llumin’s brow furrowed again. She pursed her lips, opened her mouth, and closed it. “You know, I’m not terribly sure,” she admitted, and propped her head up on her elbow to look at him. “I think it had something to do with my Wyld Hunt, or its completion, or something. Do you still get that sense that you should be doing something, or looking for the next thing to do?”

He gave a soft chuckle and drew her closer, where she nestled into him. “That, my dear, is the curse of us who lead and have our wanderlusts about us. It’s why we came away.”

“Is that all?”

“Well, that, and for some privacy.” He slipped from the covers and hissed as his feet touched the cool ground. He reached back towards the bed.

“Don’t you dare!”

“I’ll just take one,” he protested. He tugged on the corner with a smirk that lit fires in her eyes as the wheels in her mind turned.

“Then what’ll I have? A sheet and pillows and no you here beside me.”

The corner tugged again as he made an about-face to bend toward her again, a regal king draped in his covers as he bent toward his queen. “You could stand with me.”

Gentleness silvered her words. “I always will.” She sighed and grimaced. “But I am rather cold now with the corner you’ve lifted, and … well.”

His smile remained in place as he gave the sheet another tug. “It _is_ going; it’s only a matter of time when.”

Small feet hit the floor with a yelp before her arms wrapped around to press him to her. He laughed and covered them both with the sheet like some two-headed mummy. “Well, look at us now,” he said, and beamed down at her. “We’d be something for future archaeologists,” he said teasingly.

She laughed with him. “I can imagine the confusion, the headlines…”

He sighed and rested his chin on her head. “We’d be a regular creature, wouldn’t we?”

She nodded. “Shall we visit the ruins again today?”

He hummed. “We could. Did you find out what was written on the eastern part of the collapsed arch?”

She turned to rest her cheek on his chest. “Something about a high king… or a priest.” He could imagine her lips pursing in thought again. “Certainly something to do with the gods and divine punishment.”

He ran his hands up and down her back as he hummed in thought. “I got something similar from my studies of the ruins,” he mused. “But that was last night with a bit of wine and candles and picnics. Perhaps our more wakeful minds will help us get more context now, hm?”

She stifled another yawn into him. “Speak for yourself, Marshal; you know as well as I that last night wasn’t entirely restful.”

“You didn’t seem to mind then.”

“Neither did you.” There was that false primness in her voice, the slight quirk to her lips, the certain shine in her eyes, that made him accept her invitation and drink in her taste again. They parted with a calm serenity, warmed in the dawn’s glow as they stood and swayed. “We don’t have to go out,” she murmured.

“We don’t,” he agreed. “But we’ve already lost so much light.”

“Do you want it back?”

“Never.” He rested his brow on hers and they breathed in time before he exhaled and parted from her, leaving her with the blankets and hissing at the cold. She sat on the bed a moment and watched him dress, a faint smile to her lips. He raised a brow as he finished regrowing his armor and met her gaze. “Are you always so hypnotized by me, my love?” 

She tilted her head at him. “I may be,” she said coyly. “I remember when we first met, you were wearing that same armor. I thought it would never come off – I nearly thought it was a part of you.”

“Metaphorically speaking, it was,” he hummed. “I was quite good at warding off affection.”

“And then you met me.”

“I did. And then I ran from your ever-clever attacks.” He sat heavily on the bed and she crawled toward him, cocooned in the warmth as she wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Alas, you had encountered an opponent so wily and persistent that you eventually gave up.”

He laughed quietly. “The best battle I’d ever lost,” he declared. He raised her hand from his collarbone to his lips. “You’d best get dressed if you wish to join me at the ruins. I may decipher the next bit of text without you, otherwise.”

She gave a huff. “I could just follow you as-is,” she sniffed.

He paused in guiding a boot’s leaf up his shin. “The ruins aren’t _entirely_ isolated, you know.”

Did that smile ever leave her lips anymore? “Oh? Do you think I’d start a local legend? The manic sylvari and her husband, working tirelessly to uncover old secrets in moldering ruins in the rural parts of Kryta…”

“I’d rather not have someone look upon you and try taking you for himself.”

“Bold of the would-be kidnapper to assume I’d be anywhere that isn’t by your side!”

He turned and took her into his arms. She gave a surprised cry and a laugh and happily kissed him. 

“You need to stop that,” he said with mock sternness. “Otherwise we won’t get anywhere near those ruins today.”

“Oh, dear, what a tragedy, a couple of newlyweds who’ve saved the world taking their luxurious time before a long trek to the old woods to look at ancient ruins and…” She paused, lips pursing as she thought about it. “You know, you’re right; I’d hate for someone else to solve the writings on them before we could beat them to it.” She wriggled from his grasp, tossed the blankets aside, and hurriedly began to coax her armor from the growth-points at her skin. “Do we have breakfast packed?”

“We did that last evening when we first got back,” he said, and held up a picnic basket. She gave an absent hum; he could nearly hear the gears in her mind starting to click.

“Good; dawn rose… how long ago? I think I was out again.”

“We’ve still got about three hours before the full zenith of the sun; take your time, darling.” 

She smiled but did not look up from where she guided her chestpiece to curve up and around her shoulders and collarbones. “We can take more time later,” she said. The growth vine curled around the divot at the front of her neck. “You know, there is a small part of me wondering how Selana and Gryphon are doing.”

“They are very capable, Llumin – we’ve no need to worry about them, and they’ve said they’d send word if anything’s happening.” He smiled encouragingly. “We can relax.”

“Well, for a few more days, at least,” she agreed. “This really has been a lovely honeymoon.”

His eyes crinkled. “Few women would appreciate a rural excavation for their romantic getaway,” he said.

“Then you’d best be glad I’m your wife and not your average woman!” she laughed. “I’ll grab the picnic-basket. We’d best get going.”

“Yes, and I have the map. Ready?”

“Right when you are, my love.”


	2. Arc 1, Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A festival and unrest lurk at the corners of the future.

Meanwhile, back in Lion’s Arch, Myrie Ward, street thief, daughter of a disowned knight, and, most recently, Warmaster of the Vigil, watched with no small amount of concern as a set of brightly-colored streamers and paper-mache creatures were paraded by on eager hands. Brilliant papers and posters were being nailed all throughout the city, same as she had seen in Divinity’s Reach, and despite the festive atmosphere, something about the upcoming festival had her neck itching with suspicion. 

“Dragon Bash,” she read aloud, squinting at another sepia-parchment poster with its dark black ink. “Everybody gets the chance to bash dragons like the famed Pact Commander –” She squinted. “Commander? Don’t they realize there are at least three of them?”

There was a longsuffering sigh from at least a foot-and-a-half below. “Myrie,” came the high-pitched voice of asura guardian, Khimma, “here’s something you’ve gotta know. The people love romance. The people love simplicity. The people are stupid.”

“Khimma, I just watched you eat three cotton candies in the span of two minutes.”

“That is _beside_ the point and completely off the mark of what I was saying, which is, in summary, people’ll only really notice the Commander with the most drama. And right now,” the asura said cheerily, reaching over and popping her empty paper cone into the nearest bin, “that’s definitely Commander Llumin.”

The thief snorted. “I don’t know. I’d say Selana’s pretty dramatic, being related to her through some sort of tree magic and whatnot. And then there’s Gryphon, who’s helping take on corruption in Divinity’s Reach through proper legislature while trying to keep Nettle on whatever magic leash she’s dealing with.”

“Ah, yes,” Khimma said, pink eyes gleaming. “But which one of them kept kissing the Marshal?”

“And making a terrible job of hiding her feelings? Pretty sure everyone in the Pact knows the answer to that one, genius.”

“I _am_ a genius,” she beamed. “How brilliant of you to notice.” There was a whirring around her, and Myrie twitched as the asura’s golem, SHU-TY, popped out from a shadow holding another stack of scrolls to her.

“I just hope Llumin and the Marshal are enjoying their honeymoon and that nothing bad happens in the meantime.”

“Oh, I’m sure they’re enjoying themselves,” the asura said with a cheeky grin. Myrie grimaced.

“Why did you make it sound awkward? You had to make it sound awkward.”

An unrepentant giggle followed a hollow apology. “I did. But I do agree – after everything that’s happened, the least thing Tyria needs is any more nonsense. This festival’s a great way to ensure that the world remembers to take a break.” She pointed with a small finger toward another poster. “Look – seems like even your queen’s taking the opportunity!”

“What?” Myrie raced towards the freshly-plastered poster and tore it down, eyes scouring over the text. “Crown Pavillion… coronation celebration… _over the sinkhole where the Canthan district was?!”_ The thief’s eyes narrowed as she crumpled the paper and threw it towards the same bin Khimma had used for her cotton-candy tube. The asura gave a sharp cry of protest.

“What was that for?”

Myrie’s lip curled. “The Canthan district in Divinity’s Reach collapsed years ago, shortly after my father lost his title. We got shuttled into a terrible little hovel in the back alleys of the Salma District, where any petitions my mother started got conveniently forgotten because we no longer had even our noble house to support her claims towards his title. And now,” she fumed, stalking back towards the asuran gates that led towards the various capitals throughout Tyria, “despite the Queen’s protests for years of ‘oh, we can’t rebuild that, we have other infrastructure to deal with’, she’s finally deciding to rebuild – and it’s for something to point to _her_ greatness. Nobles!” she swore, and threw her hands in the air. “What’re they good for other than backstabbing and using you as footstools!”

“Hey,” the asura said warningly, and elbowed the thief’s thigh. “You know for a fact not all nobles are bad. What are Selana and Lord Radwing, again?” 

Myrie paused in her march towards the gates. “Nobles,” she said slowly.

“Who helped you with getting some of your dad’s mind back?”

“Nobles…”

“And who’s helping your mom and dad work on getting – ”

“All right, I get it! But the Queen’s decision to rebuild there’s gotta have more significance than just… ‘I need a new fancy thing for me’, right?”

Khimma cleared her throat. “Myrie, do correct me if I was wrong, but I recall there being something about the charr-human peace treaty being a pretty big reason this is being built, correct?”

The thief whirled about and quickly fetched the crumpled poster from the bin; her eyes scanned over it and narrowed. “Huh.”

The asura sighed. “You’re really worried about all this, aren’t you?”

Myrie scratched the backs of her neck and hands. “It’s just… the prickle’s back. And that’s usually the sense I get in the middle of battles. Mark my words, Khimma, this festival’s not all going to be cotton candy and bloodsports.”

Khimma snorted. “Bloodsports?”

“ _You_ missed the part on the posters where they were advertising the Queen’s Gauntlet. I can guess where Nettle will most likely frequent.”

A cool breeze brushed past Myrie’s neck. “Quite right! A delightful breath of freedom from the usual antics.”

Myrie gave a yelp and instinctively jolted back. “Yeesh, Creep Cabbage, can we get a bit of warning before you lurk on us?”

“Oh, no, that’d defeat the point. We want you to be on high alert. You never know what’ll strike next.”

Myrie’s mouth twisted. “So you think there’s something up, too?”

Khimma threw her hands in the air. “Honestly, bookahs? Both of you think there’s something going on here? It’s just a celebration! The Pact’s already had their big shindig, so now it’s only fair that the rest of the world wants to have a party to commemorate the death of an Elder Dragon! This is huge! You both need to relax.”

Nettle’s smile widened. “I am relaxed!”

The asura’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah. I can see that. You seem downright cheery. Who’d the Order end up putting a kill on this time?”

The necromancer rolled her eyes. “Bold of you to assume that I’m only happy when I’m conducting my experiments,” she sighed. “I am actually usually an easygoing person; merely the effects of my seal and working under the thumb of the Order and Knights of Gryphon have turned my usually-pleasant disposition…”

“Murdery? Belligerent? Creepy?”

The sylvari sniffed. “Let’s say _strained._ Anyhow, yes,” she clapped. “A celebration is exactly what the world needs. I do anticipate some excitement.”

“By which you mean bloodshed.”

Nettle turned her pale face down towards the guardian. “My dear Khimma, there is _always_ bloodshed, whether or not we acknowledge it. This merely provides a wider stage.” 

“Great,” Myrie huffed, throwing her hands in the air, “well, while the world at large is trying to figure out how to party it up for the death of an Elder Dragon and probably let down its guard again, I’m going to head back to Div’s and see about filling out more paperwork. I’m sure Selana or Gryphon have some task I could be doing.”

“Wot, ain’t heading back to the Keep to train that fresh batch of recruits?”

The thief turned. Sylfia swaggered from her ale tent, tippling mug stowed in her bag, and reached her arms out. “Looks like Lady Ward’s heading up in the world,” she sniffed, crushing the thief in a hug before the thief could squawk out a protest.

“Sylfia,” she wheezed, “you’ve recovered well.” Her hands desperately patted the warrior’s broad back. “I can’t breathe!”

“Aw, you fleshy little squishies and yer human bones,” she cackled, and released her friend with a goodnatured whomp on the back. Myrie coughed. “So! ‘Eard there’s gonna be some great gathering of the charr/human wotsits about getting together soon! Or sommat. Hard to keep details straight in this noggin of mine.”

“That’s because your noggin is half-brined, sister,” Nettle said primly. Sylfia’s face soured.

“Oh, it’s you. Thought the headache was because of my ‘angover.”

“How unfortunate that it can be attributed to more normal means.”

“Moving on,” Khimma said quickly, stepping between the two sylvari, “we _do_ have some orders from Gryphon.”

Myrie’s pulse jumped. “Are the Tea Leaves okay?’

“The – oh, you mean Trammander?”

Sylfia groaned and ran her hand down their face. “You lot quit that weird name mashing…nicknaming… nonsense! They’ve got _names_ , you know!”

Nettle sighed. “The Marshal and Commander are fine. Very fine, from what I’ve heard. Strangest place for a honeymoon, but who am I to argue? Regardless, Khimma, the orders?”

The asura’s ears pinked with a giggle. “They are adorable and you know it. Ehem! Orders, yes. We’ve been receiving reports from some of the settlements northwest of Hoelbrak that they’ve been having more issues with dredge and Svanir. Nothing super major right now, but enough that they’re getting a little concerned.”

“See, _told_ you there was something up.”

“Regardless,” Khimma said patiently, holding up a hand, “as the celebrations for Dragon Bash/the Queen’s Jubilee – ”

“That’s _now?!”_

Khimma’s head swiveled. “She’s _your Queen,_ isn’t she?!”

“Look, I’ve been too busy learning how to set out _five different forks_ and how to properly address titled people and dance to keep up with _politics!”_

Nettle sighed and turned to glance at Sylfia. “Do you think we’ll ever get the orders?”

The warrior shrugged and reached behind her to knock back the rest of her drink. “Give ‘em a minute.”

“ORDERS!” Khimma stamped her feet on the ground and shook her head. “Okay! Nettle, Myrie, you’ll be going to Divinity’s Reach to keep up with the security and information for the preparations for the Queen’s Jubilee. See if there are any whispers of dissent or anything. Gryphon says that it’s likely Minister Caudecus will try to make some sort of shaking power statement while the Queen’s polling for national unity. And this, will, of course, further complicate your father’s restoration to knighthood.”

The thief gave a bitter laugh. “His own health does a good enough job of that already. All right, fine. I’m in.”

“Brilliant,” the asura said dryly. “As for you, Sylfia, you’ll be heading up with Elmfrond, Lyca, and one of our newer recruits to the Shiverpeaks.”

“Yes! More ale!”

“To keep an eye on the dredge,” Khimma reminded, shaking a finger up at the warrior. The sylvari rolled her eyes.

“Aye, sure,” she drawled. “And to keep an eye on the bloody dredge.”

Khimma beamed. “All right! I’m off to collect Klixx and head to the engineering/hologram tent. Supposedly the Captain’s Council’s thinking of something grand, and we’ve got a new shipment for the big finale. Have to say, I’m excited at the lights this’ll set off; if it’s anything like what’s being promised, nobody’ll forget this event for years to come!”


	3. Arc 1, Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> High society is hardly clean. Selana and Myrie find a way to deal with the thief's distant, scrounging relatives while finding out how to get Myrie an invitation to the introductory expedition to the airships of new arrivals -- the Zephyrites -- where the thief could find out more about her lineage.

“Step one, two, three, curtsey, turn, hands raised, join hands, and … Selana!”

The old man’s voice broke through the towering elementalist’s thoughts. She blinked and smiled apologetically. 

“I’m sorry, Sam, you were saying?”

The servant sighed, white wisps flying from his balding crown as he shook his head. “Lady Firestone, my dear … Selana. Your mind has been wandering as of late. I know you know the Applenook Two-Line as well as you know your pianoforte, but I just watched you miss two steps and curtsey off the proper tempo. Is it because it’s not Faren?”

A mixed pang, anger and betrayal and sadness, echoed through her chest. “No,” she said, and couldn’t keep the stiffness from her throat. She turned back to her partner and inclined her head. “I apologize, Nathan; you’re an excellent dancer, but – ”

The dark-skinned norn laughed. “No need to apologize, your Ladyship. I was honored that you even considered me for your dancing lessons. I might be able to cut a rug in Hoelbrak, but it’s always interesting to see what you can learn from other cultures’ styles.”

She smiled. “It is rather rare to see a norn dance as well as you.”

He blushed. “Thank you, ma’am. While I do appreciate your compliments and the use of your tailor,” he said, and stuck his finger into his suit’s collar, “one thing that Hoelbrak has on Divinity’s Reach is the weather. I’m going to go get changed back into my regular gear, if that’s all right for you.”

A set of reedy coughs drew the elementalist’s brows downward. “Yes, that’s quite all right; thank you, Nathan; my household staff will contact you about your payment later.” 

The norn nodded and rotated his shoulders before he walked off with surprising grace.

“He was also the only man I could find around who was tall enough to properly dance with you,” Samuel said. A faint snicker interrupted his coughs. “If you’ll excuse my impudence, Selana, Lord Faren may have been a good dancer, but the boy was about a head too short for you.”

She rolled her eyes and sat next to him, elegant silks rustling. “Faren was a great many things, Samuel. I only wish our relationship had ended differently.” 

The old man’s brows furrowed. “You are still friends, aren’t you?”

Her lips thinned. “We at least are in contact,” she said, and brushed a speck of unseen dust from her skirts. “As to our relationship, I suspect we are currently, at best, acquaintances.”

“Oh, come now, Selana; I’ve known you two since you were children.”

“When you had _hair,_ that is.”

“You wound an old servant!”

The elementalist smiled. “Things change, Samuel. Hair comes and goes. Children grow up and fall in love and out of it and friendship can wither. He made a promise and he broke it. That he refuses to speak of it in anything other than vague terms …” Despite herself, her throat bobbed. She took a breath. “Clearly, our relationship wasn’t anything terribly serious to him.”

Samuel’s watery brown eyes dimmed. “I wouldn’t know, Selana; I think he took it harder than you realize when you broke off the engagement.”

“Then he shouldn’t have kept up his skirt-chasing when he had promised otherwise,” she said curtly, and stood. As she did, a pair of crystalline ruby golems walked through the courtyard entrance to stand at her side. Samuel laughed.

“Those things are funny; every time you’re upset they come trotting right up to you. I’d almost say they’re concerned.”

“They’re golems,” she said, yet she still knelt to smile at the faceted reflections in their crystalline heads. “Nettle gave them to me. She says they’re imprinted, but I wouldn’t attribute any emotion to them.”

At the mention of the haemomage, the old servant’s skin paled. “I still can’t believe what you told me about her. She seemed so sweet and kind when we first met. A bit odd, certainly but…” He leaned heavily on the arm Selana offered as he stood. “I just thought that was all sylvari.”

“She’s manipulative. That’s part of why she was able to get away with what she did.”

“And it’s true that she’s under control?”

She paused, a hand hovering over his. She considered their differences for a moment – he, the servant who had practically raised her, ancient, loving, worried – she, the noblewoman, the sole human survivor of her house. His heart was growing weaker, she knew.

“Yes,” she lied, and walked with him out of the courtyard. “Now; you’re shivering. Let’s get you some tea.”

“There’s a footman at the door for you, Lady Firestone.”

Selana quickly closed the letters she had been writing and stood. “Let him in.”

_“Him?!”_

At the voice, Selana’s mouth quirked into a smile. The rant outside continued.

“Look, bucko, I might not be dressed fancy, and I know the clothes aren’t exactly formfitting, but do you _seriously_ think I’m a man just because of the haircut? My eyelashes are better than any man’s – except maybe Thackeray’s, but I think he uses product…”

The servant had blanched. “I’m sorry, miss, I hadn’t heard your voice, and your silhouette was rather confusing…”

“Myrie,” Selana called, “quit berating Marguerite and step into the foyer already.”

The thief squinted at the servant, who had, to her credit, attempted to look over the dust on the thief’s black leather boots, and strode inside with a proud air of affrontery. Her face softened after a moment. “Oh, who’m I kidding? Sorry, Miss… Marguerite, you said?” She rummaged in her pockets and gave her some silver. “I’m sure your boss is a right tightwad, so here, take it as an apology.”

The poor woman’s face had gone through more expression changes than Selana had ever seen before. “But miss, this is…”

Myrie waved her off. “I’m not exactly old money, myself – new to it, but I don’t quite know what to do with it other than hire new lawyers or keep buying people to remind them of my case. Go on, take it. I’ll get more later.”

The servant quickly curtseyed before Selana could edge in a word, thanked Myrie at the last second, and scurried away. Selana raised a brow at her.

“You can’t pay off _everyone_ you greet improperly just because of your pending station, Myrie.”

The thief had collapsed into a plush chair and raised her boots onto the table. A brief tremor in the ground scooted Myrie’s seat too far away to allow the stretch, and the young woman had, with a huff of protest, set her shoes on the ground. Selana resumed her seat across from her.

“I take it,” she said, “that you’re escaping your governess again.”

Myrie’s lips twisted. “I haven’t had a governess since I was five. The sharp words and smacks I could do without.”

The elementalist laughed. “You actually had a governess back then?” 

“Trust me; I did everything in my power to run every single lesson out of my head as soon as possible. Mom was hesitant to let her go even after we lost the house. Thought she wasn’t doing me any favors with that woman.” She paused, brow furrowing. “Actually, she wasn’t too bad. I think the more willful, older students must be the ones who get hags.”

“Myrie!” 

“I am speaking from experience here! Lady Pritchardd is a _major_ pain. I’m not just speaking metaphorically, either!” She laughed. “Had her fun ‘till I returned the ladle to the kitchen. Mom was furious to find she’s been using her best soup spoon as a knuckle-whacker.”

“And why, pray tell, were your knuckles being whacked as an adult?”

Myrie’s unrepentant grin flashed wide over her face. “Guess what else these fingers do.”

“You _haven’t…”_

She triumphantly hoisted a string of pearls. “Can’t clutch ‘em if she hasn’t got ‘em,” the thief declared.

Selana pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples. “Myrie, you _do_ realize that you’re not helping with your case for your father’s title-restoration?”

The thief’s smile dissolved. “What, by forgetting to properly address your servants? By forgetting which fork is for salad and which is for fish and, oh by the way, don’t dare get them mixed up or you’re exiled from proper society forever?” She stowed the pearls and crossed her arms. “The more I learn about proper society, the more I think it’s stupid.”

“Myrie – ”

“I mean, what’s the point? Who’re the ones we’re really trying to impress? Other knights? Faren? They’re not the ones with power, Selana, you and I both know that. The only people who’ve got enough clout to do something are the Ministers and the Queen, and that’s only if the Ministry needs a tiebreaker royal vote.”

“I agree with you.”

The thief blinked. “Pardon?”

Selana sighed and sat back in her chair. “All the grandstanding, the politicking, the squabbles… the excessive displays of wealth are pettiness in other forms. But as much as I dislike so much of this society, it is the ones _here_ who influence the Ministers. That’s why I calculate everything. Every word, every dish, every silk is a statement. Alliances are made and broken with the tilt of a fan. This is a delicate society, Myrie, and you are…” She paused and gave a humorless laugh. “Well, you’re right about its silliness. I work to use my abilities to help others. I’m not the only one, even if I and Gryphon are about the ones you know. Minister Wi is actually rather kind, and does what he can despite his son’s mistake to help those he can and influence power to help farmers who’ve been displaced by the war with the centaurs.”

Myrie sat back, brows raised. “Huh. Well, good to know at least three noble houses aren’t total snobs.”

The elementalist’s lips twitched despite the neutral expression she tried to keep. “Indeed. Regardless, I’m certain you didn’t quite come here to speak about the finer points of my personal views on Krytan politics.”

“I didn’t.” The thief sat up. “What I’m here for is about the mission. I know there’s something up, and the festival’s just another cover the mucky-mucks are using to draw attention from it.”

“Myrie, it’s not a red herring. It’s an actual celebration.”

The woman’s brows descended suspiciously. “I believe you,” she said slowly, “but I also think there’s more to it than you’re letting on.”

Selana was clearly thinking about something. Her jaw shifted slightly in an unusual display of openness. “There are rumors,” she said finally, “that some Canthan refugees and traders are heading this way on airships. Zephyrites,” she said, and stirred a spoonful of sugar into her tea. “Not _strictly_ Canthan by law or politics, but largely consisting of merchants and civilians who wished to escape the situations of the landbound.”

At the mention of her ancestral homeland, something in Myrie’s mind pinged. “And you didn’t tell me this _why?”_

“This isn’t necessarily anything to do with Krytan or Canthan politics, Lady Ward – “

The thief groaned. “Stop _calling_ me that! I’m tired of everyone trying to call me that like a newly-named dog!”

“It’s what you are, Myrie, and if you can’t handle me saying it, then it’ll be much harder for…” She paused, held up her hands, and took a breath. “The reason we didn’t want to say anything is because routes to Cantha have been blocked off for centuries, first with the rising of the Elder Dragons and then with the Empire’s reluctance to let anyone in or out.”

“I know that much. But if they’re from Cantha or nearabouts, why is this such a big secret?” Myrie sat forward, elbows on her knees, and took petty glee from Selana’s pained expression at the posture. “This is amazing news! We could finally be getting in touch with – ”

“Did you not hear _anything_ I just said? This is _not_ an official Canthan vessel or mission, Myrie! We don’t know fully the reasons for their arrival aside from their own needs to resupply; the Order of Whispers was just informed of this recently, and we don’t know how they propel their airships, since reports have said they don’t use any major visible engines, and whatever it is that they’re using could be dangerous if it got in the wrong hands.”

Myrie’s jaw shifted as she sat back up. Her fingers drummed on the arms of the ornate chair. “I want a reassignment.”

“Take it up with Gryphon. I’m just an officer.”

The thief snorted. “What, thinks I’ll be less capable anywhere else than the Queen’s Jubilee? Nettle’d actually be better than I at that with all those people to read – ”

“We’d _appreciate_ your assistance in your insight. You might not be magically-inclined as a general rule, but you’ve got an eye for details.”

“Well, then, maybe I’ll argue to Gryphon that my eye for detail would be better served in an area that’s closer to something _I’ve_ been cut off of from centuries, huh?”

The elementalist watched as her companion stood, brows furrowed. “What’s wrong with you, Myrie?”

A cynical sneer curved over the younger woman’s face. “Oh, I don’t know, Flameylocks. Maybe it’s because I’m being forced into a world I only wanted for my father. It could have something to do with the fact that I’m reminded at every turn how out of place I am. Could have a bit of merit to mention that…. Oh, yeah, he’s still relapsing into his flashbacks more often than not. That Nettle’s supposed to be my _partner_ in an event where I’ll need to work closely with her – ”

“She’s under control, Myrie, and you’re – ”

“You don’t believe that!”

Selana blinked. 

“You don’t believe that,” Myrie hissed, voice fierce. “I can tell from the way your fingers tap your armrest that you think there’s something off, don’t you?” She shook her head. “She’s been acting stranger since Llumin’s wedding, and that’s not helping the fact that I’ve just learned you knew about something that’s got a tie to _my_ history, my _culture_ , and you’re telling me to just… let it all possibly go to keep an eye on more poncy nobles who’ll be guarded to the teeth? You don’t need me here, Selana. Trust me. The Knights won’t _want_ me here.”

The elementalist’s expression was unreadable. “Are you certain of this?”

The lack of fight seemed to surprise the thief. She took a breath. “Very. I want a chance to find out what’s happening back where I came from, if I can, maybe see if there’s more opportunity for my family back there. Let me have this. Let me write to Gryphon. Don’t try to dissuade me,” she said. A pause. A sad smile curved her face. “Please don’t try to dissuade me. You’ve got all your history with you. You already know about what’s happened to your people. Let me have this chance, Selana.”

The noblewoman sighed and stood. “You’ll still need to take it up with Gryphon,” she said quietly. “But for what it’s worth, I understand where you’re coming from.”

Myrie watched cautiously as she walked around to a large potted fern; the ruby golems that had been patiently waiting by the door walked slowly to the elementalist’s side and came to rest. She absently placed a hand on one of the shining heads.

“I think you’re too quickly burning something you could benefit everyone from for the sake of your own fear and discomforts,” she murmured. “But you are your own woman, though as your friend I would advise you to reconsider.”

“And as your friend, I ask that you respect my wishes.” Myrie couldn’t keep the flint from her words as she spoke. “I’ve made up my mind, Selana; I’ll go where Gryphon wants me, but I have at least the right to ask why.”

The elementalist sighed and returned to her seat. “Very well. I’ll give you his current location. Do you need a messenger bird?”

“Is Red really that far away?”

“He’s in Orr keeping up with the troops cleaning up the land; he just left two days ago.”

“Huh.” The thief sat back, brows furrowed. “Any progress?”

“Zhaitan’s death seems to have made the minions’ attacks less-concentrated – more ravenous, but less-direct. They’re disorganized but still dangerous.”

“And the numbers?”

Selana’s lips tightened. “The Dragon had more minions buried beneath the sea than I think we still realize,” she said quietly. “Orr might be cleansed and freed, but centuries of corruption do still linger despite the death of its source.”

Myrie shuddered, remembering the cold burn of the multi-headed Zhaitan on the deck of the _Pride of Tyria._ She could have sworn she had heard its voice, almost a triumphant warning at its death, a threat of a Pyrrhic victory in the end. But the Dragons didn’t speak, did they?

A small scroll slid in front of her fingers, drawing her from her thoughts. 

“If you’re heading to the Zephyrite location, you’ll be among diplomats, merchants, and other onlookers. We’ll likely use you as a scout and to inform us if you see anything that could prove hazardous to Tyria’s wellbeing.”

“You want me to be a spy? I’m _Vigil.”_

“The Vigil does have spies, Myrie, and this is the likeliest way you’ll be getting there if Gryphon agrees. I’m merely giving you a prebriefing.”

“Who were you going to send in my place?”

“We’re still sending her; Lyca and Elmfrond are quite good at scouting and blending in.”

“She’s a norn and he’s a sylvari.”

“And it’s going to be a Tyrian greeting with all races and people coming to see this event; the first attendees will be diplomats, researchers, and informants. They’ll be going there to look at exotic cooking supplies for their cover. You,” she said, and a faint smile betrayed her, “will be able to use your cover as looking for someone who might be distant family.”

Myrie’s smile dissolved. “Distant family?”

“You’ve said multiple times how your mother’s side was originally from Cantha. Is this not true?”

She sighed and stood, running a hand over the back of her neck. “It is, but… Mom’s not super-aware of what city or district we’re originally from. We know that our family name used to be Hua before she married my dad and took his name, but there are a bunch of others who share it, and the city/district records would be more accurate for genealogies. The only other thing we could get that would be helpful would be our family book, but we haven’t had that since Dad lost his title.”

There was a certain edge to Myrie’s voice. Selana arched an eyebrow. “You say it as if it was…”

“Stolen? It was. And Mom only let me know about it when we got a moved after I got back from Orr. Turns out Dad has a sister. Wouldn’t know about it because she only came knocking when it was revealed that her niece was a member of the same party that helped take down Zhaitan, and ‘oh, Missy, it’s been so long, my how you’ve grown, and won’t you come to our gala this week?’” She sneered. “Missy. My name’s _Myrie_ , and she can’t even keep that right. We’re still regathering our paperwork that that proves Dad’s knighthood, and this woman comes strolling up claiming she knew about us the whole time, and she’s got our family genealogy to prove it. Well, it would’ve been better for her if she’d kept us in the dark – she’d stolen _Mom’s_ side of the family blood-books and been skimming on Dad’s sympathy for her own social benefit. Apparently she’s been going on about ‘oh her poor brother Lemuel, poor man’s gone insane and lost his knighthood,’ collecting money, and forgetting to donate it to her brother who she’s lost track of. Except she hadn’t, so now she’s rich and knows where we live, and here I’ve been scrimping to help Mom and Dad’s doctors before Gryphon came along to help.”

There was a faint crackle in the air. Selana had latticed her fingers together in the perfect image of poised grace. “Myrie, my dear friend, do tell me the name of this darling aunt of yours. I would like to throw her a party.”

“A …” The thief’s eyes narrowed. “Are you inviting Nettle to it?”

Despite herself, the elementalist’s lips quirked. “No; I’m about to allow her to do something worse than die – she will soon find herself experiencing the death not of the corporeal form, but of her social status. Did she say how long she’d been attempting to contact you?”

“How did you know she’d say that?”

“Leeches come in many forms, Myrie, and if you live long enough in this society, you’ll learn their every stripe. Not every creature in this gilded pond is a leech, but if you find them, they can usually be fat, selfish things. And I’ll also need to know when she’s planned this gala you’ve been invited to.”

Myrie’s expression soured. “I already declined it – as did my mother, who gave her the best earful anyone could ever have had.”

Selana’s brows furrowed. “That likely would have further complicated matters. I admire your mother, Myrie, but she has been gone from upper society for quite a while.”

“So you’re telling me you’d remain poised and calm while some aunt you barely remember comes by and tries mooching off of your while you’re still getting your feet on the ground?”

“I would. Then, I would politely point out her every failure to perform her duty as blood and nobility, make a remark about the smallness of her character, and inform her that should she threaten to darken my threshold again, I would expose her to the highest echelons of Krytan society so that her name would become synonymous with the selfish greed she had no problems with espousing for the past… I’m going to assume twenty years?”

Myrie blinked. “Good grief, Flameylocks,” she whispered, face paling. “Remind me to keep on your good side.”

The elementalist beamed. “I know we don’t always see eye-to-eye, but Myrie, trust me when I say that you are one of a few I count among my closest confidants.” She clapped lightly. “Now, write down the date of her gala; I’m putting mine out and sending invitations for that same day. It will be larger and have greater appeal, as it will have at least one Pact Commander – that is, myself – in attendance, in addition to another Slayer of Zhaitan – you, of course – who will also be a guest of honor. We should be able to get it done before the Zephyrite diplomatic excursion and before the opening of the various festivals’ main events. Should all go well, we’ll have your genealogy returned, be able to confirm from what district your ancestor originated, and then be able to send you on your merry way a bit richer.”

“Richer?”

“Myrie, you and I both are fully aware of how your fingers will be having a field day at a gala of the size I’m planning to throw.”

“Are you… are you encouraging me to swipe stuff?”

The elementalist brushed off her spotless skirts and turned back towards her gardens. “Swipe? Oh, Lady Ward, nothing so crude – merely picking up things people might miss.”

The thief shook her head, a grin forming on her face. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this is your version of a hit list.”

“Myrie Ward, how dare you insinuate such terrible, horrible things about your dear friend, who is most certainly not annoyed at the incompetence of her fellow nobles and who would definitely not wish for them to realize they’re not as untouchable as they might think?”

“And you really think they’d not immediately point out myself as the thief?”

“No, of course not! Some may suspect something, of course,” she said, and a sly grin passed over her face, “but when the evidence points elsewhere, they’ll have to direct their ire to the true culprit, won’t they?”

The thief’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Is this what you do in the Order of Whispers?”

“A good amount of it, yes. Hardly any different from the usual Krytan politics.”

“And this is why I went Vigil.” She chuckled and clapped her friend on the back. “All right, Flameylocks. Option Retribution is on the way. And I’m certain Gryphon doesn’t need to know about this?”

The elementalist waved her off with a good-natured smile. “He’s got plenty on his hands overseeing operations on the Orrian front and keeping in touch with Sylfia and Nettle on the Shiverpeaks scouting. We can handle a little party before we dash back into the fray. Wear what you wore to the Commander’s wedding; I think that should be sufficient to make a proper impact on the attendees.”

The thief turned at the gate and saluted with a grin. “Best. Hostess. Ever. See you later, Lady Firestone,” she said, and gave an exaggerated bow before she walked away.


	4. Arc 4, Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elmfrond and Lyca make their way to Hoelbrak and are interrupted by enemies with new powers and supreme numbers. A new ally is found.

Elmfrond shivered, amber eyes crinkling, as he pulled his furs around him and continued trudging through the snow alongside his companion. He tugged his leather cap about maroon leaves pulled into a short ponytail and looked up at her. “Lyca,” he said, “could you tell me the story of the Wolf-Mother again?”

The norn woman, short for her kind, still towered over him. She gave a grunt as she reached down to pull him over a patch of rough rocks slicked with ice. “I thought I told you that one recently, Pup,” she said, and dusted snow from her thick-skinned pale hands. 

“You did.” He sneezed, and she saw her gray eyes dart to his thermos. “The soup’s gone,” he said, and grinned sheepishly at her. “You always make the best stuff.”

Her eyes crinkled above her slate-gray leather mask. “I’m glad it met with your approval. Are you too cold?”

He stamped his feet in the powder. “I’ll manage, Mum.”

The ground beneath him should not have sounded hollow. Lyca’s eyes narrowed, and she swept him off his feet with a single arm. The sylvari gave a yelp of surprise as the frozen soil burst, and a bald-headed, blind dredge grasped its way from the soil. The mole-like humanoid didn’t get much chance to shout for its companions; Elmfrond had already drawn his pistols and fired a deadly shot between bulbous eyes made practically useless by their permanently-closed lids. The dredge gave a gurgling cry and crumpled into the snow. There was another rumble. Lyca whirled around and tossed Elmfrond into the air; the sylvari twisted through space and landed heavily on his feet a length away, glancing back with wide eyes.

“Mum!”

“I’ll be fine!” Her long white braids snapped in the breeze kicked up by the monstrous metal tank that had grumbled from the tunnel. Already her white wolf, Fang, was at her side, hackles raised as the hatch on the back of the tank rose. “Make sure you have clear lines of sight before you fire!”

“I know!” The sylvari’s grips on his pistols were firm, a focused glint in his eyes. “I was born with this knowledge, you know!”

A dredge raised its makeshift weapon – something sonar, the thief thought belatedly – and braced itself as it fired. The norn ranger dodged the invisible blast as it rippled through the air and tore a chunk through the snow and frozen soil. Yet, unlike most sound-based weapons he had encountered, this one left behind a crackling line of vitrified soil when it fired. Unease prickled down Elmfrond’s neck at the realization.

Lyca turned from the weaponeer to the dredge pouring from the tank as a well-placed shot from Elmfront roared up the weaponeer’s barrel and ruptured in its face. The thief’s eyes widened as the ground beneath him rumbled, and mounds of snow began to rise.

“Lyca,” he called warily.

She used the pommel of her greatsword to stun an assailant before Fang set upon it with a terrible growl and gnashing of teeth. She half-turned with a raised brow and caught sight of the bubbling earth. “Focus on getting the ones that are exposed, Pup,” she ordered, and switched to her bow. She fired a powerful shot that sent her reeling back to where the sylvari stood, and with a sharp whistle, her wolf was soon to follow.

Elmfrond watched as she reached into her quiver and pulled out handfuls of arrows. A grim expression set itself upon her face as she squinted into the snow and struggled to focus over the sounds of the dredge and their weaponry. 

He swallowed, reached into his bullet-pouch, and froze. “Mum,” he swallowed, wide eyes turning to meet hers, “I’m out of bullets.”

Her arms tensed as more dredge carriers burst from the snow. She pointed her bow at the sky, bundles of arrows held between her fingers. “Use my shortbow and the arrows left from my quiver.”

He carefully yet quickly unslung the smaller of her bows from her shoulder and staggered. “It’s too big.”

She squinted at the sun and took a long, slow breath as the dredge neared. “I know. Try using it anyway if you can. You need to run.”

She released the string with a hiss and a thrum, and the first deadly hail fell. Dozens of enemies fell beneath the first barrage, and the second and third took more with them. Elmfrond watched her in stunned horror. Her lip barely curled, and she spoke quickly but clearly. “You and I both saw what that weapon did to the ground. I’ve fought dredge longer than you’ve been alive. The engines they’ve got are letting them draw up more allies quicker than before. We need to warn Hoelbrak of whatever new magic they’ve got infusing their weapons.” 

His eyes caught on the weapons the dredge were using, the armor that covered some of their bleached hides. “They’re glowing,” he whispered, and somehow his feet were guiding him to obey despite his wishes. “Lyca, these aren’t normal dredge!”

Her jaw was set and her back faced him. “I _know_ , Pup. Go!”

He stumbled back and nearly tripped in the snow. “But – ”

She whirled on him, fangs already bristling from her elongating maw. _“Go!”_ She turned back to the dredge and gave a feral snarl, and her form rippled and shifted into the bipedal form of a hulking white wolf.

Elmfrond didn’t run far. He quickly caught sight of campfires in the distance, the high curve of a village wall ahead. He could still hear the distant sounds of battle and knew that the dredge’s numbers yet rose.

“Help!” He pushed past the gates with strength greater than he realized he possessed and half-tripped into the frozen earth, breathing heavily. “Somebody help – there are dredge attacking, and my friend … my friend won’t last long!”

A broad-shouldered young norn with a thick red braid and half-shaved head of hair turned toward him. “Who are you?”

Elmfrond flinched. “Are you serious? There are dredge just outside your village, and they’re killing my friend, and if you don’t _help_ her, she’ll – ”

“Whoa, hey, no need for the waterworks,” the norn stammered. “It’s just…”

The sylvari watched his furrowed brow as he looked over the village – now he could see the cause for his hesitation. 

“We’re not exactly swimming in defenders,” he said apologetically. “And while we’d like to help…”

“You don’t have to kill them all!” The sylvari threw Lyca’s bow at his feet, shoulders heaving. “We just need enough time to get her away or – or something! These aren’t like what you’ve fought before! Maybe you could endure in the past, but this troop was clearly heading _your_ way, and if you don’t stop them now, they’ll come back and massacre you all!”

“And what could one more mace-arm get you, huh?” He unhooked his weapon and curled his lip down at him. “What could _one_ of our measely defenders buy you?”

A message echoed in the thief’s mind. “For us, just enough time for reinforcements.”

It wasn’t a bad way to die, Lyca thought. She had at least saved Elmfrond. She forced herself to straighten and pounded her fist into a new wound at her side to fight back the haze that lingered at her vision. The taste of blood still lingered on her lips – some dredge, more of it hers than she’d care to admit. If she closed her eyes, she could nearly hear the redeemed souls of her father and husband calling, see her daughter’s open arms waiting for her in the eternal hunting-grounds….

“Mum!” 

Her gray eyes snapped open. Elmfrond was barreling back over the snow; a small sortie of warriors charged into the fray. It wouldn’t be enough to drive them back, she knew, and recognition dawned over her face and lifted her heart. It _would_ be enough for Sylfia and Nettle to get a trace on their location with their portable waystones. She absently reached into her thigh-pouch and felt the glowing blue crystals thrum with growing energy.

“You foolish pup,” she wheezed, but couldn’t muster enough strength to truly scold him as she parried a molten strike from a dredge’s flaming hammer and broke its skull over her knee. “Where’d you get reinforcements?”

“He guilt-tripped us.” A young norn, broad-shouldered but barely past manhood himself, gave a grim smile as he knelt and splayed blunt fingers over her wounds. “Spirits,” he swore, “that _is_ bad.”

“Wolf certainly didn’t give you insight, pup,” she chuckled. He flinched somewhat at the comment, and his lips thinned. 

“Well, when your own pack won’t take you, you make your own,” he said coolly, and gave a shout of warning. His shield rose in time to deflect a flaming orb that hissed and spat as it rolled away in the snow. “Cragstead, see if you can get to the tanks! If we can disable them before they breach, we can seal these mole-creeps in the ground and cripple the assault!”

There was only silent affirmation as the warriors moved to stomp on the rising mounds of the transports. It didn’t always work – some of the blind attackers still managed to leap from within their would-be tombs to strike at the defenders with strange weapons that glowed and burned with an unnatural light. Nonetheless, their presence slowed the advance greatly, and while Lyca knew it wouldn’t be enough in the long run, she grit her teeth and told herself that it didn’t _need_ to be for the long run. It just needed to be long enough.

There was a sudden buzz from the stones in her pouch. She hurriedly unclasped it and threw them a few feet aside as they blazed with light, and the forms of her guildmates covalesced into their physical forms. Sylfia’s red hair flashed in the wintry air as she gave a cry.

“Gore, you _never_ take us anywhere nice, fleshy,” she declared, and with a deadly arc of her hammer, several dredge loosened their holds on life and landed heavily in the tundra.

“The battle was unexpected,” Nettle said smoothly. Her dagger dove into the chest of an attacker before she pirouetted and slid it past her teeth and out again. “The magic is new.”

“We figured.” Elmfrond rolled behind Sylfia and snatched some unused bullets from the pouch at her hip. “Now we just need to kill them and drive them back.”

The norn guardian at the defenders’ head half-turned, eyes bulging. _“Those_ are your reinforcements?”

Sylfia’s crooked grin flashed in echo of her sister’s. “Trust me, Mountain Man,” she chuckled, and steadied her stance. “With us at your side, we’re the only ones you’ll need.”

“You all fight like trained warriors.” The red-haired norn winced as Nettle wound a poultice over a gash on his arm. He crossed his hands over the pommel of his wolf-headed mace and sighed. “I… suppose I should apologize. You guys were fighting to defend our gates, and we hardly even considered helping you.”

Lyca shrugged and carefully attended her wolf’s bleeding ear. “You’ve clearly been at the center of some unpleasant attacks. Cragstead’s seen better days,” she said, and stood. “I remember visiting here as a young woman. Your numbers have fallen by half since then.”

A Shaman of Wolf garbed in worn gray furs sighed. “You’re right, pup,” he said, and slumped by Nettle’s side to help in healing the wounds. “And while some of it has been due to traveling craftsmen heading to Hoelbrak for better opportunity…” He closed his mouth and chewed on air. 

“Too many of them are in graves,” the guardian said. Elmfrond turned from stirring a large kettle of soup to look at him.

“I should have thanked you as soon as you came,” he said apologetically. “But I’ll admit I didn’t get your name.” The broad-shouldered fighter smiled easily, green eyes crinkling.

“No worries, ah, Elmfrond, was it?” He stuck out a massive hand. “My name’s Braham. I’m glad you came to our unexpected rescue today.”


	5. Arc 1, Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The drama! The action! The punchbowl! Myrie’s mooching aunt and her cousins come to town for an expose only Selana could plot.

Myrie desperately loosened her collar as Selana strode easily by. “How do you _do_ it,” she hissed, writhing beneath the starched lace. “I would go absolutely nuts if I had to wear this all day!”

Her friend paused from looking at one of another five different lists and frowned. “That’s because you’ve _over-_ starched it, my dear,” she said easily. With a wave of her fingers, elemental steam wafted pleasantly over the itchy restraint, and the thief sighed with bliss. 

“Now that I could see me doing someday. Got any way of teaching water magic?”

“It’s actually a very complex form of water, fire, _and_ air magics, Myrie, and to have it so precisely controlled takes several months at the very least after mastering the prior three individual components.”

The thief blinked. “You could’ve just said ‘no.’”

“I could have, but it wouldn’t have been as much fun.”

A servant ducked past the grounds’ arches, heavily laden with flowers, and bowed. “The first guests have arrived, Your Ladyship,” she declared.

“The first…?” Myrie arched a brow. 

“Your parents. No need to worry; they’ll be provided for, Lady Ward.”

The thief grimaced again, but did not complain further about the title. At the elementalist’s side, her crystalline golems turned their heads to her once but marched to the arches at a silent command.

“Announcing Lady Li and Sir Lemuel Ward, parents of Lady Myrie Ward of Shaemoor!”

“Shaemoor?” she whispered.

“Until formally recognized by the Ministry and the nobility, it’s the best we can do for titles,” Selana demurred. “Keep with it for now; others will push back.”

Myrie uncrossed her arms long enough to walk to her parents as they were guided to their chairs and give them each a small hug and a kiss on their temples. She explained that she would be greeting the rest of the guests with Selana and returned to the noblewoman’s side. “Who all did you invite?”

“Enough to cause a stir,” she said with a faint smile. It failed to instill calm in the thief’s veins. “Enough to get noticed.”

“Selana, with your parties and influence,” she hissed, pulling at the starched black lace again and pausing only at the reproachful brow of her mother, “that would only take one other person.”

“Well, then,” she said simply, and inspected her nails, “I suppose it will be very noticeable, indeed.”

Myrie paled. “Flameylocks,” she said evenly, and squinted at a long line of lights that slowly swayed into view as finely-bred dolyaks, moa, and even magitech golems began to steam toward the noblewoman’s house, “how noticeable is ‘very’?”

“Very,” she said unhelpfully. 

Thirty minutes of whirlwind introductions later, a band had started, Myrie’s parents – her mother, honestly – were talking to former colleagues and other nobles, and, glory of glories, the thief herself had been _spoken_ to by other ponces. It was almost unbearable, and indeed she would have fled the scene as soon as her danger sense had started itching, were it not for the ample compensation her filching hands gave her. Those who bent over her hands to feign respect and concern for her mad father’s position would often turn back to the party and punchbowl with a ring or two missing. Selana had ensured that Myrie’s high-collared, wide-skirted dress had as much form as function, and in its skirts’ pleats, hidden in their folds, were deep pockets muffled with velvet linings. The thief smiled an empty, pretty smile at another noble whose most recent spiel was going on too long to be anything other than self-aggrandizing and stiffened. The final carriage had arrived. 

She didn’t have enough time to be shocked at Faren’s presence – that he had slipped into the party either with an invite or out of sheer curious stupidity fell beneath Myrie’s concern as he bent to open the heavily-ornate, gaudy gate of the final arrival. A thickly-powdered woman with plastered rouge, a shockingly-plummeting neckline, and enough jewelry to make the thief’s eyes widen stepped from within, followed by two miniature versions of her. The woman herself would doubtless have been pretty enough without the thick layering of cosmetics she had applied – as it was, her cunning slate-gray eyes cut out across the crowd with single focus until they landed first on Myrie’s father and skittered over to her.

“ _Magdalene,_ ” she cooed, and gathered voluminous pink skirts to bowl towards Myrie like a taffeta hurricane. Passers-by and servants alike scrambled and leapt out of her way as the woman made a beeline to her. The thief stiffened and prepared to either flee or draw her weapons as she approached; a hand on her arm gave her pause.

“Patience,” Selana murmured. “Remember we are here for a reason.”

Myrie stifled her annoyance with her estranged aunt’s pearl bracelets. She dipped her head to hide her grinding teeth and curtseyed. “Actually, Aunt Rochelle, my name is Myrie.”

“Oh, yes, yes, very good, Marie, and so good to see you,” she babbled, and beamed, and patted her arms. “My, how tall you’ve grown! Surely you remember your cousins!”

Myrie’s mouth dried as she peered over Aunt Rachelle’s voluminous shoulder-puffs. Twin sets of unimpressed glares and simpering smiles beamed at her.

“Aselle, Isabelle, do come forward,” the woman trilled, and beckoned them forward with a wine-painted nail. “Your cousin is _famous_ now!”

Their hair was clearly as false as their enthusiasm, Myrie thought, as their equally-coiffed blonde curls dipped with their curtseys.

“Charmed,” Cousin Aselle beamed, eyeing Myrie’s black lace collar distastefully.

“Certainly,” clicked Isabelle, wrinkling her nose at the thief’s chipped nails.

The thief’s stomach withered and bloomed into hot rage and embarrassment. “Why don’t you get some punch,” she smiled, and if Selana made one comment on how tightly her jaw was clenched, she had resolved to throw the sparkling bowl at _her_ , “I’m sure you’ve been parched.”

“Oh, we have,” Aunt Rochelle declared, and proceeded to shove and curtesy and bat her eyes through the crowd to part them on her way. 

Selana smiled an unreadable smile at Myrie’s cousins and informed the thief that she would be going to ensure that the other guests were doing well. 

Myrie excused herself after thirty minutes of ingratiating conversations and borderline hero-worship and ducked behind a pillar to breathe. She carefully removed the tiara from her short-cut hair and exhaled slowly. How Selana managed to keep up with the delicate game – thinking of what to say, how to say it, what tilt of the fan to employ – was certainly more difficult than she had initially realized. Myrie peered out from behind the intricately-graven frescoes and frowned. Unsurprisingly, even from here, she could hear the increasingly-sloshed voice of Aunt Rochelle keening above the hubbub and even the music of Selana’s orchestra.

“And that’s when I knew,” she sniffled, her tremulous tones like sandpaper to Myrie’s fraying nerves, “that it was now up to me to carry on the family legacy.” She had removed something from a hideous carpet-bag of a satchel and was waving it around. “My dear sister-in-law, bless her heart, hadn’t known yet how to speak or write proper Krytan – she’s Canthan, you know, half from the Echovald Forest and half from Shing Jea Monastery, that’s what her ancestors were – so she gave me her precious geneaology and tasked me – ” She broke off with a dramatic sniff; Myrie glanced over to her mother and saw that she had gone white with rage – “She asked me to translate the whole thing. To be honest, I’d nearly forgotten it.”

Lady Ward had half-risen from her spot, earrings trembling with fury, and opened her mouth to speak. To Myrie’s surprise, it was Lord Faren again who had appeared at her side. Whatever he said had clearly placated her mother just enough to afford her silence. She merely nodded once at the young nobleman and stared icy daggers at her thieving sister-in-law. 

“And, well,” Myrie’s aunt continued, a proud gleam in her eye, “it was really all thanks to my niece that I remembered to bring it back. I have to say,” she declared, “I cannot be prouder of the woman she’s become today, and of the sacrifices my noble brother has made for her to get there.”

There were confused smatters of applause that echoed throughout the courtyard. Selana, to the thief’s surprise, was one of them – yet the blaze around her firestone had grown to a white-hot flame, and her smile had become a mask. “How noble of you, indeed, Lady Rochelle,” she said, and stepped forward with a polite clap. Faren caught sight of her and suppressed a flinch. “Surely such a momentous undertaking would have taken years of work, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, at least five or six, yes,” she said, and batted her eyes innocently. “My poor brother would have had it commissioned for her before then, but…” Her face crumpled. She raised her fan and attempted to blow away nonexistent tears. “Well,” she said after a moment. “You see his current state.”

Faren was once more attempting at the side to keep Myrie’s mother from rising from her chair and strangling her sister-in-law with her strawlike wig. 

“I see,” Selana said, and raised her glass in a toast; the rest of the party was quick to echo her reactions. “To family, then,” she smiled, “and to honesty.” She raised her glass to her lips and paused. “Oh, wait,” she laughed, and murmurs echoed throughout the courtyard as she set it down, “where are my manners? Lady Li Ward, it is still correct to assume that your husband is incapable of speaking for himself, is it not?”

Myrie felt pride swell in her heart as her mother raised her jaw and spoke clearly. “He may not, but I speak for him. Lord Gryphon Radwing has been helping him with working past his shell-shock, and he’s at least been able to sleep better than he has for years.”

“Very good,” the elementalist nodded, and her smile was at once kind and cunning. “And, Lady Li, is that your genealogy book?”

Myrie’s mother’s bright eyes caught on the leatherbound tome. Her aunt nearly jumped at the expression. “Yes,” she said evenly. “And the story my dear sister-in-law told has one more side.”

“Oh, well, I’m sure we could all tell them later,” she said hurriedly. Myrie had to give her credit – even _she_ could recognize when a crowd could have the opportunity to turn. “And there’s no need to thank me.”

_“Thank_ you?” Lady Ward stood, knuckles white against her tawny skin. _“Thank_ you? Why, certainly, I’ll thank you,” she said, voice trembling. “Thank you, Rochelle, for stealing one of the few links I have to my family and to a country that has been closed off for more than a hundred years. Thank you, my dear sister, for claiming you would raise funds for your brother, your own _flesh and blood_ , and promptly forgetting about us the instant we lost our house in the Great Collapse. Thank you for constantly reminding me of your own daughters’ wellbeing and showing all the finer things they had in life when Myrie was starting to get into fights on the streets to help pay for her father’s medications.”

A pin could have dropped like thunder in the courtyard. Lady Rochelle’s face had turned plaster-white beneath her powders. “Li,” she attempted, but the matron of House Ward was not to be stopped. Her voice rang out clear, bell-like, a judge’s gavel in the brilliant courtyard.

“Oh, Rochelle, of course I’ll thank you further; how cruel of me to forget the other kindnesses you’ve done us,” she snapped. “How quick you were to stand at our side when the Krytan nobility – yes, many of you gathered here! – voted to strip my husband of his title for the simple loss of his sanity, of his voice, defending our land from a beast we can only pray is still either asleep or far beyond our reach! What kindness you possessed when you would use your status in comparison to our daughter to raise you beyond your poisonous heights! The Hero of Shaemoor was a well enough relation to have on her own,” she continued, and swept her hand toward where Myrie stood, “but to later have her be the friend of the foremost Commander of the Pact, and then of two other Commanders and members of our high society! What great generosity saw you darken our door for more than five years’ silence, insinuating that we might have our genealogy back for the mistake of its taking if only we were to pay you for it!”

There was a dissonant rumble through the crowd; faces which had once turned admiring gazes to Lady Rochelle were quick to glare at her instead. The woman sputtered helplessly as Lady Li Ward continued, dark brown curls quavering in the setting sun.

“You are a woman of unfathomable selfishness, sister,” she spat. “And at one point I had hoped you would have at least some form of decency to do right by, if not me, then your own blood and flesh. Instead, when we needed you most, you stole from us, claimed no knowledge of our existence, and came striding back in only when it seemed our fortunes were on the rise. So yes,” she said, and stood as tall as her slight frame would allow, “Lady Firestone certainly had it right when she claimed there was more than one side to the story of our reacquaintance. There is the lie of yours and the truth you tried to buy and bury. So, my dear sister,” she said, and sat back by her husband’s side to place a hand on his arm, “what have you to say?”

“I – ”

“Poor form,” a lord muttered loudly.

“Lady Rochelle, is this true?” another asked, eyes wide behind an ornate mask.

Myrie couldn’t help but smile as her aunt’s paint slowly cracked. “I…!”

Her cousins reappeared at her sides. “Leave our mother alone!”

Rage finally lit Myrie’s veins. “Oh, there you were,” she said, and crossed her arms. “Great, so since it appears we’re finally getting to the meat of this sh…”

A raised red brow of warning from Selana cautioned her. 

“This _delightful party,_ ” she amended, and fumed silently, “then let me also tear the mask off of my dear, lovely cousins. My dear, friendly cousins,” she said, and curtseyed with an exaggerated bow, “who when I first was introduced to them, refused to play with me and called me all sorts of terrible names. Who mocked me when I said that I couldn’t read or write or spell beyond their level and who called me every horrible name a child can call another until they lost their matching rings, and guess who had to go down into the muddy sewers to get them?” She sneered. “Ladies and gentlemen, the little girl they’d already dubbed ‘Mud Hair’ was hoping to be the hero. When she finally shimmied back up from the stench and muck, instead of companions, she received further mockery. And you wondered why I didn’t want to visit afterward – yet who else would have been my friend at that time? Who else would have had use for me before I learned to pick my first lock?”

“Lock?” Cousin Aselle echoed dumbly. Isabelle’s eyes widened. 

“The kitchen larder,” she hissed, and stepped menacingly toward her. “I knew it was you, you thieving, grubby little – ”

“My family was _starving,_ and you begrudged us every morsel,” Myrie snapped. “I was happy to have friends on the streets who saw my straits and helped me from them. But you,” she laughed, and shook her head. “You who would have had all the town thinking you were Dwayna’s messengers themselves! You would have forgotten us – you _did_ forget us – until we were of some use to you! And now,” she said, and remembered Selana’s note to her, “even now you accuse me of terror while inviting all you could to gather around and view your relations. Well, look no further! I am here, Aunt. I and your brother and your sister-in-law, who are all more deserving of respect than you ever could be.”

Selana stepped forward, and Myrie stepped alongside her to stare the powdered ingrate in the face. “Look at your blood, denier,” she spat, “and know this celebration is the last you will ever have.”

For a moment, the noblewoman could only gasp like a landed fish. “You…” she finally spluttered. A crooked finger rose to point accusingly at her. “You set us up!”

“You stole from the innocent. And you’re too drunk to even defend yourself. Not that you could,” Selana said calmly, inspecting non-existent dirt from her nails. “Now, it appears that your pockets might have a bit more than what you should have.”

For a half-second, Myrie thought the comment had been directed at her, yet to her surprise and dawning confusion, when she slowly reached down to the skirts’ pockets to check her loot, there was nothing there. She sent a brief panicked look towards Selana, but the noblewoman barely gestured with her hand once.

“Empty your pockets, Rochelle,” she ordered, and raised her cup to her lips. “Let the crowd see you for what you are.”

Myrie’s aunt’s face finally resolved itself into a mask of haughty pride. “I have nothing to hide.”

Selana’s smile could have cooled volcanoes. “Empty. Your. Pockets.”

She raised her jaw and shoved her fists into the pleats. Myrie watched with widening eyes as the rings, bracelets, and other miscellaneous jewels and items she had lightfingered appeared in her aunt’s disbelieving hands. “Wh… I don’t--!”

“See now what we have in our midst!” Selana turned to the other nobles. “Is this not proof enough for you? She would withhold crusts from her own starving kin, and now among us she has stolen from those she would claim allies.” 

The crowd growled and murmured discontentedly. Finally, a voice rose above the hubbub. “Throw her into prison!’

“Prison for the thief! Justice for the kin-denier!”

“How uncouth!”

Rochelle gave a maddened screech and threw the stolen goods on the ground. She whirled around until her mottled face caught on Myrie’s own stunned look. “ _You!”_ she snarled, and with surprising haste, she lunged at the thief. “You’re the reason for my family’s downfall!”

Quicker than Myrie would have thought possible, Selana stepped in between her and the portly missile-woman. Her wrist whipped around as her fingers curled into Rochelle’s collar, muscles straining beneath her silken sleeves as she hoisted her high. The estranged aunt gave a shocked yelp as her feet dangled ineffectively above the ground.

“You have nobody to blame but yourself,” Selana hissed, and Myrie felt the air prickle in sharp cracks. Once more she recalled the inhuman heritage of the towering highborn, and swallowed uneasily as something _ancient_ seemed to stare from her blazing blue gaze. After a long second, she merely shook out her wrist and dropped the woman, who landed on her backside with a shout. Her daughters rushed to her side. “The Seraph are coming, Rochelle,” she said evenly, and crossed her arms. “I’m sure that the Ministry will love to investigate your finances.” She turned back to the crowd. “Ladies and lords, thank you for coming tonight. I’ll be sure to reimburse you for any losses – ”

“No.” Lord Faren stepped forward, brown eyes warm. Selana’s perfect composure slipped only once, but she nodded at him, and he continued. “That won’t be necessary for us, Lady Firestone. Lady Ward,” he said, and turned to the thief. “We on behalf of the nobility of Divinity’s Reach would like to formally apologize for the injustices you and your family have endured at the hands of one who some of us had considered a cohort. While we cannot make it up to you for all the wrongs that have happened in the past, we can begin to rebuild that foundation by starting anew today.” He turned back to Selana. “Lady Firestone, please feel free to expect a donation for the lobbying of Miss Ward’s parents' titles on our behalf.”

She smiled, and hers was joined by that of Lady and Sir Ward, though the knight still did not seem to fully understand what was going on. Quickly, as if waiting for an excuse, at least half of the room declared that they would donate the cost of their stolen items in lieu of their recovery. 

By the end of the night, the stolen items had been recovered to the point of mailing them back; those who had refused to donate, however, never did find what they had lost.

“How did you do that little loot-transferring trick, by the way?” Myrie asked, helping Selana finish tearing down streamers and emptying the last of the punch bowl. The noblewoman smiled. 

“People don’t always pay attention to the talents of their servants, but I do. I have a lady-in-waiting whose mesmeric abilities of item teleportation are surprisingly-accurate. Now, she cannot do it with very large items, and any attempts to teleport living things have ended in disaster, but keys? Bracelets? Rings? If she knows the general location of the item she’s trying to send, she can do so with decent ease. It tires her, but when I put forth the suggestion, she was more than thrilled to try it. To be honest, I think she rather liked pranking the nobles.”

Myrie laughed. “Well, thanks for the show, Flameylocks. Thanks to you, my aunt’s been practically banished from our doorstep, and we finally have something to help when things get hairy again that’ll help my mom and dad be a bit more stable while I’m away. I’ll have to thank the servant for her help; let me know who it is and I’ll write her a letter before I head out with Elmfrond and Lyca to the Labyrinthine Cliffs.”

A sly smile curved the elementalist’s face. “Of course. Her name,” she said, and took the punch-bowl inside, “is Marguerite. Now, I’ll be sure to pass on your regards. You’d best head home; you’ve a long way to go.”


	6. Arc 1, Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nettle and Sylfia make a discovery, and the two go their separate ways. Braham decides to follow.

“How different is _different_?” Sylfia tilted her head quizzically at her sister as she stirred different bowls of iron-scented fluid. The haemomancer ignored her for a while longer as she reached over to a green-bubbling vial and tipped in a drop or two to one of several bowls. There was a faint _puff_ and a fizzle of acidic-yellow smoke. She wrinkled her nose and frowned.

“Very,” she said dryly, and tipped the dud into her mouth. Sylfia grimaced as she shuddered.

“Why do you even _do_ that?”

“Any result that brings us closer to an understanding of the magics woven within gives us further insight into how to counter it,” Nettle said simply. She smacked her lips. “And unpleasant as this may be, my taste and memory of magical threads is second to none.”

“You jus’ wanted an excuse to taste blood,” the warrior said dryly. She ground more red flakes from her hammer’s stone head and frowned. “Where’ve Lyca and Elmfrond gone off to?”

“They’re headed south to the Labryinthine Cliffs. Myrie’s supposedly on the way to join them and see what new outings from Cantha have come their long way across the sea.”

“So we’re stuck in the frozen climes trying to bash in these new molten moles while three of our other guild-mates are down drinkin’ warm tropical fruities and buyin’ new bling with guild funds? Doesn’t seem fair, now does it?”

“You were the one who wanted this mission,” Nettle sniffed. She reached to her side and drummed her fingers absently over the brow-bone of her skull, Adam. “And Adam here agrees that your presence is a significant improvement to both our martial prowess and overall observation.” She gave the skull a side-eye. “I’m not as convinced as he about your skills, but…” She shrugged and began to pack up her equipment. “He sees more than I do on the necromantic and magical frequencies sometimes, so perhaps he’s noticed something that I’ve missed.”

“Wonderful,” she said dryly. She unrolled a map. “Based on what we’re seein’, these fire-dredge’ve been popping up more around the Priory research camps, right?”

An affirmative hum. 

“Well, what for? They’ve been stealin’ stuff, right, but…”

“Based on what we’re seeing, it’s for weapons research unlike what we’ve been able to track for years. The new magics and their weapons’ advancement points to an outside influence.”

“Wot, like the humans and their gods?”

A pale lip curled. “No; something a bit more within our realm.” She rolled a set of metal stirrers, corked powders, and clean bowls into a velvet holder and tipped the rest of her experiments in jars, which she sealed and placed carefully in her pack. “Though I’ve not had much experience with tasting the blood of Flame Legion charr, the slight thread between them seems to point to a form of commonality between them – a fusion, of sorts.” She held up a half-destroyed weapon, slagged and partially-broken by one of Sylfia’s undeniable hammer-blows. “Now, these two races and factions have had no prior reason to join forces, and certainly no united vision of the future which would pressure them that way. They only respond to force, from what little I know – ”

“Oi’m just glad to hear you constantly admitting your ignorance,” Sylfia beamed. Nettle bared her teeth and hissed. 

“Will you quit your gloating and _listen?_ ” She rearranged her face into a more pleasant mask as a curious norn passed them by. As soon as he stepped from range, her sharp expression returned. “What we are dealing with is something that you may believe warrants an interruption of our dear Marshal’s honeymoon. He may not like it, but based on the missives Gryphon has sent me, this is a serious enough concern that would justify such means.”

“And why throw that particular ball into my court, eh?” The warrior walked over to a keg Cragstead’s residents had provided and lowered her drinking-mug to its spigot. A few measly drops plipped into her cup; she frowned at the meager supply and shrugged, tossing it back. 

Nettle crossed her arms and shouldered her bag. “Because I’m more interested in testing the thread between this young norn we’ve encountered and some of our prior companions.”

Sylfia lowered her mug and brows at the necromancer. “By ‘thread’, you mean ‘blood’, and since Oi know there ain’t any connection between ‘im and Lyca, there’s only one main norn you have comin’ to mind.”

The necromancer hummed as she threw her bags together. “Good to know we’re on the same page, my dear sister.”

The fiery sylvari growled and half-slammed her mug back into the hook at her own pack. “Same _page_ don’t mean agreement,” she growled. “And we’ve got to focus on the _mission_ first, right? So you file your reports, and I’ll get news to Knut Whitebear and see if ‘e’ll put forth more effort into researching these dredge. You might need to send word to Khadr over at the Black Citadel to see if she’s got any information that could correlate with our reports.”

“The only information I need that _she_ could provide are that of weaponry specifics. Other than that, I’ll need more blood to test.”

“Leech.”

“Researcher,” she spat back, crossing slender arms. 

Sylfia remained uncowed. “Leech,” she retorted, practically spitting the last syllable. The necromancer rolled her eyes and turned on her heel. 

“I’ll be sending missives to Lord Radwing to see if he’ll approve my journey that way; otherwise, I’ll travel along the wastes to spread the message and see if we can gather any more information through word-of-mouth. These dredge weapons are unlike any we’ve seen, and if the magic’s common thread _does_ prove to be the Flame Legion…”

“We’ll need to find out what’s pushing those two forces together.” Sylfia grimaced. “Remember that last village we passed?”

“Smoking crater, yes. The one with the new weapons’ effectively wiping out everyone before we could make it. Word of mouth is _so_ slow.”

The warrior sighed through her teeth. “Yeah,” she muttered. “Too slow. Tell you wot,” she said, and shoved a thumb toward the wintry storm outside, “Oi’ll stick around ‘ere and help spread the word. Think that Braham fellow might be able to provide enough muscle to keep me from burning.”

“You’ll go against whatever burning things they have to warn them?” Nettle’s eyes widened. “You hate fire.”

“Yeah, doesn’t mean Oi want others to get crisped for my cowardice,” she spat. 

“Did I hear my name?” 

The sylvari turned. The young guardian rubbed his neck awkwardly.

“How long have you been standing there?” Nettle motioned casually with her dagger.

“Long enough to know that you and I are all in agreement that something’s off. I’ve lived here for years,” Braham said, lowering himself to sit on a long, split-log bench, “and the dredge have never been _this_ aggressive. They’re tunneling deeper than before, too,” he continued, and reached into his belt-pouch to pull out a faded letter. “Got reports from far northeast that they seem to be looking for a specific _kind_ of ore. Last we knew,” he said, and stashed it again, “they weren’t half as picky as they were before now.” He cracked his neck and huffed. “That, and they rarely raided the Priory as much as they used to. Left more living last time.” His fingers drummed uneasily on the handle of his wolf-headed mace. “Do you…” He licked his lips and glanced from one sylvari to the other; though Sylfia was tall, even she only came to his chest; seeing him act so nervous drew a faint smile from her scarred lips. “Do you really think this is as big as the signs seem to make it?”  
“Oh definitely,” Nettle said breezily, a wide smile on her face. “Possibly big enough to warrant a Pact-level threat.”

“The _Pact?”_

“Well, we’ve got our guild, which is significant, certainly, but we ourselves don’t have the manpower of the Pact.” She dusted snow off her lap and crossed her legs as she sat across from the guardian. “And the magic is unlike anything we’ve seen; Khimma and Klixx just sent reports of unusual krait hunting patterns just a few days ago – ”

“They _wot?!”_ Sylfia nearly lunged at Nettle’s bag, but a curious look from the norn reminded her of her perceived authority, and she forced herself to remain proper for another few minutes. 

Nettle beamed. “Yes; oh I must have forgotten to tell you, hm? Research, you know. Consumes the whole mind.”

“Naturally,” the warrior said through clenched teeth. Braham cleared his throat.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose that… it must be something really big. I mean,” he said, and laughed, “I kind of figured it was, but…” His face darkened. “When we started getting reports of survivor camps… not just one or two, but _dozens_ popping up, I figured it couldn’t be just this area of the Shiverpeaks.”

“An astute observation,” Nettle said with a sage nod that Sylfia only hoped the guardian couldn’t read for the sarcasm that it was. Thankfully, he was still under the unfortunate belief that the necromancer was strange but overall harmless, and missed what would surely have had the delightful result of a fist in her face. Sylfia banished her glee at the thought and forced herself to focus.

“Yeah, I’d be willing,” the norn was saying, a hesitant tone to his voice, “but I’d rather avoid talking to Eir if I could,” he said dryly. “There’s um… some history there. I’d rather not talk of it.”

Nettle looked every bit the cat with the proverbial canary. Sylfia turned to her with a wide gaze and a rictus grin that threatened her with great bodily harm and asked for explanation all at once. “Oh, Braham was just saying that he’d be willing to go with you to corroborate your story of the Molten dredge,” she said cheerily. “Since we know you’ve got a bit of a…” She coughed politely. “ _Reputation.”_

Which she’d clearly provided to the guardian; he was looking at her with the kind of bewildered look that always asked how a drunkard like her could possibly have such high command of a Pact batallion. The warrior felt shame and rage burning in her throat. She hoisted her hammer over her shoulder and stood, shaking snow from her red-leaved head. 

“Right,” she huffed. “Thanks,” she spat. “Now, if we’re going to make decent time there, we’d probably best get moving. Thank your elders for the shelter and food they’ve provided,” she said bluntly, and began to walk to the exit. “I’ll meet you in Hoelbrak.” She paused and turned back to Nettle. “And were will you be going while Braham and I make reports to the Wolfguard about this threat?”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” She batted her eyes. “To the Black Citadel, of course, where I’ll converse with Khadr and see if our puzzle pieces match up! See you later, sister, and do try not to either catch on fire or freeze to death!” She patted her arm and stood; a small waystone-crystal shimmered in her palm. With a quick flash of blue light, she was gone. Sylfia clenched her fists until the thick leaves around her hands creaked.

“Man.” A low laugh brought her gaze back to the norn, who was watching as the light faded from where the necromancer once was. “She’s a real piece of work, isn’t she?”

“Yeah,” the warrior grumbled, and resumed her exit. “Don’t let her get to you alone. Or anywhere,” she said, and gave him a glare. “She’s dangerous.”

“Seemed fine to me,” he shrugged. “But she’s your guildmate, so I’ll take your word for it,” he said uncertainly. “So do you know how to get to Hoelbrak, or…?”

She sighed. “We’d best keep walking to get there. Don’t know how many folks’ll need our help with the threads popping up around them. C’mon. Just because I ain’t warm-sapped doesn’t mean Oi don’t feel the cold. Let’s go, fleshy.”


	7. Arc 1, Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Khimma and Klixx are introduced to the Consortium and catch up on guild events. Khimma nearly dies.

**ARC 1, CHAPTER 7:**

Khimma’s ear twitched as a screeing seagull pinwheeled high overhead in the skies of Lion’s Arch. She set down her most recent box of wires and walked over to Klixx, whose lower torso was sticking out from a box of gyrogears and whirligigs.

“Khimma,” his voice echoed woodily, “do we need the etheroresonance magnifier, or the prismatic wave fractioner for the holograms.”

“If you’re working for Overseer Gatt, go with the fractioner. If you’re under Nixxi’s wing, try the etheroresonance.”

There was the sound of a gate warping behind them. Klixx emerged victorious with the required supplies hoisted high above his head and beamed. He craned his neck to peer behind Khimma’s shoulder, and the expression melted into suspicion.

“Who’s _that,_ ” he hissed, and pointed very directly at the yellow-and-blue-clad asura smugly striding towards them, “and why does he look as though he’s about to take over our decoration mission?”

“Step aside, plebians,” the newcomer declared, spreading his arms wide. Behind him, a fleet of others in similar attire from various races were soon to follow. “This light-show is now under new management.” He beckoned behind him, and a ruddy-barked sylvari squeaked and hurriedly slapped a sticky poster-paper over the box’s front. 

Klixx’s brow-furrow grew ever-deeper as he bent at the waist from where he stood inside and read it upside-down. “Under the authority of… the _Consortium_?” He straightened and raised a skeptical brow. “Isn’t that the knockoff version of the Black Lion Trading Post?”

The Consortium asura clicked his tongue and half-turned back to the sylvari. “Vera, you missed a spot.”

“What do you –mmph!”

A paper was slapped over the face of her friend. In a few seconds, it went up in flames; Klixx’s normally-gray skin had turned a whistling red of rage. The last cinder flew off as he jumped from the box and brandished his scepter under his nose menacingly.

“Who,” he snarled, “do you think you are? We were hired by Evon Gnashblade and Ellen Kiel under the overall authority of the Captain’s Council, and as members under their employ, Scholars of the Pact-Priory, and Knights of Gryphon, we would _prefer_ just a bit more respect!”

“You’ve been outbid.” The Consortium sniffed and peeled a sheet of receipt-paper from a notepad, waving it in front of Klixx’s and then Khimma’s stunned faces. “The Captain’s Council gives their regrets, I’m sure,” he demurred, whirling it back into a pocket with an oily smile, “but unfortunately, despite Gnashblade’s protests, we are the lower line for costs.”

“You’re cost-efficient,” Khimma admitted, and put her hands on her hips, “sure, but what happens when sparks hit the fan and you’ve got to get quality work?”

“We may not be _as_ thorough as the original krewe that they hired,” he continued blithely, “but I assure you that I, Subassessor Noll, will perform the task with as much dedication as your…” His nose wrinkled. “ _Delightful_ posse. And at a 20% price cut,” he beamed. Klixx’s eyes narrowed.

“And _there’s_ the hook,” he said dryly.

The other asura shrugged. “The Captain’s Council appreciates your work, certainly,” he said, “But you have to remember that they are, at first, pirates. A pay cut’s more in their pockets.”

Khimma huffed and crammed her tools into her bag; Noll’s eyes widened briefly. She smirked. “Well, you can then complete the work we’ve done with your own tools, right? Seems like you’ve got plenty of them.” She gave a sharp whistle, and SHU-TY unburied itself from a mass of papers and work projects. “Be careful of my golem,” she said, and motioned to it. “He tends to be a little territorial and wanders off. He might not get the memo.”

“It really is a menace,” Klixx nodded. He patted Noll on the arm as he and his krewemate strode by. “Watch your fancy leather boots.”

“Really!” Khimma snorted after they were out of earshot. “Undercut by them! I’m shocked Gnashblade would go through with this.”

“Gnashblade was outvoted.” Klixx had bought a newspaper from a passing merchant and unrolled it with a snap. His eyes scrolled over the information. “They’re a competitor of his, but Council’s going to be voting on a new head… a governor of sorts for Lion’s Arch. This whole thing with the Dragon Bash Festival and the meetings with the Zephyrites are all major tests of who’ll be in charge of the whole gamut when it’s all said and done.”

“Oh, speaking of which, how’s that going?”

“Apparently, Myrie somehow weaseled her way into getting on the trip with Lyca and Elmfrond, but we’ve not heard from them for several days. They must have hit a snag in the Shiverpeaks.” 

Khimma sighed and half-jumped to sit in a high barstool. She raised her hand and ordered from the dessert menu, pausing to check what her friend wanted before getting something for him, as well. “Yeah, but do you think that coincides with Nettle and Sylfia? If we’re having to send that many guildmembers to what was supposed to be just a simple scouting mission…” She frowned, pink eyes clouding. Klixx glanced up and his brow furrowed. 

“Hey,” he said gently, “I’m sure they’re fine.” He patted her arm. She smiled at the table but glanced up when two large ice-cream sundaes with frosted cherries were set on it with a clack. Klixx’s eyes widened. “You do realize I was only half-listening when I was agreeing to whatever you were ordering, right?”

Khimma sniffed a little as she dug a spoon into the frozen treat. “Well, we just got fired from a very nice job, so I think we deserve a treat.”

“Khimma, we work for a _guild_. We’re _adventurers._ This was a side-job compared to what we normally do!”

She shrugged and took another bite, a faint smile finally curving her lips. “I guess I’m just peeved at that … _Noll_ guy. He’s such a jerk!”

“I’ll toast to that.” Klixx shrugged and took a bite of his ice-cream after removing the glazed cherry on top. “There’s more,” he said suddenly, eyes snapping back down to the paper. “Noll and the Consortium are planning on opening some sort of beach resort on … Southsun Cove.”

She gave him a skeptical look. “Never heard of it.” 

“Well, they’re planning on opening it sometime after or around the election. Probably hoping whoever wins’ll build their new beach house there.” He set the paper down and spun it toward her. She brought it closer and squinted. 

“‘Come away from the hustle and bustle of the city to a tropical getaway with open waters, vibrant natural marine life, and open bars for our premium owners.’ Wow.” She raised her gaze back to him. “That is…”

“Startlingly-vague. It feels like a scam,” he agreed, echoing her unspoken sentiment. She huffed and leaned back, crossing her arms.

“The Captain’s Council unknowingly funneling money into some unfinished pipe dream doesn’t sound off-brand for some non-asura run thing, doesn’t it?”

“Hey, _some_ in the Council are asura,” he said dryly. “Not very forward-thinking if they’re trying to invest or get a slice of _this_ undercooked pie,” he shrugged, “but it’s their money. I’m more concerned with the people they’ve hired for the wiring in the Festival. There’s a lot of light-shows going on here, Khimma.” He finished his sundae and pushed the empty glass aside. “What I’m worried about is an electrical error or some form of sabotage.”

She nearly choked on the cherry she had popped into her mouth. SHU-TY whined with concern, and Klixx quickly directed a potent gust of air to whomp her on the back. Though it nearly bowled her over the other end of the table, it did work, and the pit went soaring into the heavens, never to be seen again. She blinked tears from her eyes.

“Sabotage? Klixx, the world just recovered from killing an Elder Dragon. Who would be thinking of sabotage at a time like this?”

His gray face was grim. “Some people think that celebrations are times where the world shows its belly. Nettle,” he said, gesturing with an open hand, “would be one of them. She likes them, but knows their weaknesses. If it wasn’t for her leash, I’m sure she’d have already caused a few more murders just in the preparation.”

“So not her, but …?”

“Human rebels. Dissidents with the Crown. Divinity’s Reach is still a hotbed of political intrigue, and the Council will likely be using whatever connections they have to try getting the Ministry to get new tax deals on imports that will balance their costs a bit more in their favor. Other than that, you’ve got the charr who don’t agree with the peace treaty, dredge and other aggressive micro-societies…

Khimma groaned and set her head on the table. “Oh, not _now_ , Klixx. No doom and gloom, _please._ Even if it is true, can’t we have a moment of peace beforehand? Llumin and Trahearne are just starting on their way back from their honeymoon!”

He sighed. “You know as well as I that evil does not rest when good men sleep,” he said gently, and patted her arm. “We can enjoy our days, but we have to keep on guard; even Gryphon has been getting reports from Selana that there might be something up.” 

Khimma sighed. “Politics. What’re they good for?”

“More than we realize and less than we think,” Klixx chuckled grimly. “Come on; we’d best see if we’ve got any – oh!” He half-jumped from his chair in surprise at the sight overhead; some other patrons gasped as a tawny, golden griffon the size of a medium hound screeched and pinwheeled down, plummeting toward Klixx. He yelped and nearly zapped it from the air before Khimma gripped his arm and pulled him down. 

“That’s Gryphon’s messenger-bird!” she said sharply. “Or, griffon, I suppose – think it’s a family thing… play on words, or private menagerie… Regardless.” 

The creature hovered above their faces with a clicking purr and tilted a sharp-eyed face at them. Khimma gasped once in memory and rummaged in her pack for a small bit of jerky. “There you go,” she said cheerily. The griffon chirped and plucked it from the air when she tossed it. With a quick set of pecks and pulls, it removed a sealed scroll from its foreleg; Klixx caught and unrolled it as it flew away. When he rolled it shut a few moments later, his gaze was grim.

“There’s new magic afoot in the Grove – Llumin and Trahearne will be convening with the Pact as soon as we’ve got the reports from Gryphon, Selena, and our agents in the field.”


End file.
